“I don’t want to dine at the Pompton Club,” said Caleb sulkily.
“At the Arareek, then. We’re both members there. What evening—?”
“Nor the Arareek, neither,” answered Caleb, “Eatin’ food with a man at his club ain’t what I call bein’ neighborly. I’ll just drop around on you for a home dinner some evenin’. I’ll like that better.”
“Why, ye—es,” coincided Standish, with all the cordiality he could muster against the shock, “That will be delightful. Certainly. Some evening when—”
“How’d Friday evenin’ of this week suit you?” asked Caleb, breaking in on the loosely strung speech of his guest.
“Friday?” echoed Standish, taken aback. “Why, why my family are to be at home that evening!”
White spots leaped into view at either side of Caleb’s close shut lips, and something lurid flamed far back in his eyes. Had Blacarda—in his hospital room at the Capital—seen that look, he might have suffered relapse. But Standish was near-sighted,—except in the eyes,—and the expression passed unnoticed.
“I know your fam’ly’s to be home that night,” said Conover in a curiously muffled voice. “Also there’s a dinner party you’re givin’. An’ a musicle afterward. Twelve guests to the dinner. ’Bout two hundred to the musicle. I’m comin’ to both.”
“But my dear Mr. Conover!” cried Standish with forced gaiety. “You don’t quite see the point—Much as I—and all of us—would be delighted to have you as our guest at dinner that night, yet the laws of a dinner party are unpleasantly—perhaps ridiculously—rigid. For instance, this is to be a dinner for twelve. An extra man would spoil the balance—and—” with sudden inspiration—“it would make thirteen. So many people are foolishly superstitious! I confess, I am, for one. Now the next evening would—”
“The next evenin’,” said Conover, “you an’ your fam’ly are booked for the Hawarden’s theatre party. I read about it in the Star. You’d excuse yourself an’ stay at home an’ dine alone with me. An’ that’d be about as merry as a morgue for both of us. No, I’m comin’ Friday;—if you’ll be so good as to ask me.”